


Good Neighbors

by Spidergwenstefani



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 17:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18266288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/pseuds/Spidergwenstefani
Summary: “Are you on this floor?”“Thirty-one B. Right across the hall.”“So we’ll see a lot of each other, then. Well, and you’ll see a lot of Lucky. I think you’d get along. Oh, and Kate. You’ll see her too.”“Kate?” Bucky asks, taking a moment to plant his hands on his hips and catch his breath.“Yeah, Lucky’s ours. Together. He’s our dog.” The barest hint of a frown tugs at Bucky’s mouth for a moment, and then it’s gone. Aw, no. Clint really hopes Bucky doesn’t hate dogs.AKA Clint and Bucky are neighbors. Clint likes Bucky. Bucky likes Clint. They are both idiots.





	Good Neighbors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



> This is for Nny bc moving is a thing that is tough and also you've said before that mutual pining is a trope you like so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“You don’t have to do this,” Clint says to the back of his new neighbor’s head. Or not head, exactly. He hasn’t been able to drag his eyes much further above his waist.

“Where does this box go?” the guy says instead, shouldering open the apartment door. He turns enough to give Clint an easy smile, and Clint’s own box goes tumbling out of his hands without his permission.

“Shit,” he says, because the tape has managed to burst open and now there’s silverware skidding noisily across the hallway tile. “Shit, hang on-”

Hot neighbor is at his side in an instant, tucking his hair behind his ears and giving Clint the kind of gentle smile that he’s just now realized has been absent from his life for too long. He sets the box back upright, gathering up a handful of forks and nestling them back in the bubble wrap.

“I’m Bucky, by the way.” Clint hadn’t even realized they had skipped over introductions. He scoops up an armful of utensils and dumps them back in the box with considerably less care.

“Clint,” he offers.

“Nice to meet you, Clint,” Bucky says, and he picks up the box, leaving Clint empty-handed. Bad call. Now Clint’s got nothing to do but run his mouth as Bucky crosses the threshold and officially becomes his first new houseguest.

“Are you on this floor?”

“Thirty-one B. Right across the hall.” There’s no furniture in the place yet, and Bucky does a full scan of the empty living room before setting the boxes down against the far wall.

“So we’ll see a lot of each other, then. Well, and you’ll see a lot of Lucky. I think you’d get along. Oh, and Kate. You’ll see her too.”

“Kate?” Bucky asks, taking a moment to plant his hands on his hips and catch his breath. Clint can’t help but drag his gaze across Bucky’s arms. Natasha keeps telling him that the torn-off sleeves look is out, but somehow he feels like Bucky, with his half bun and dark skinny jeans, could convert her with one look at his AC/DC shirt. Clint finds himself picking anxiously at the waistband of his moving day sweatpants.

“Yeah, Lucky’s ours. Together. He’s our dog.” The barest hint of a frown tugs at Bucky’s mouth for a moment, and then it’s gone. Aw, no. Clint really hopes Bucky doesn’t hate dogs.

“You have more boxes?”

“Um, yeah. And a mattress.”

Bucky’s back to friendly smiles that tug at Clint’s heartstrings.

“Let’s do this.”

>>==========>

Clint’s hand hovers a few inches over the shiny brass _31B_. There are voices coming from inside. A lot of voices, like Bucky’s got a party going on. Clint should probably leave them to it. He should probably go back to figuring out how to hook up his DVR and just use google maps to figure out what his new address is. Bucky probably doesn’t have time to-

There’s the slide of the lock and then the door is swung open, both Clint and Bucky freezing in surprise at suddenly being face to face.

“Sorry-” Clint starts, at the same time Bucky says “I was just about to-”

They pause again, and then Bucky’s giving him his easy smile.

“You go first.”

“I- I was just going to order pizza, and I couldn’t remember the address for the building.” Clint finally remembers to drop his hand from where it was poised ready to knock. He clutches the take-out menu in both hands, his daydream of Bucky joining him for an empty apartment floor pizza picnic now long abandoned. He even showered before coming over, just in case his dreams played out for once. He put on _jeans._

“Well, I can give you the address if you want, but I was about to ask you if you wanted to get in on the pizza happening on this side of the hall. My buddy Steve watches TV like a geriatric, so we’re making him marathon Dog Cops and-”

“Yes,” Clint says a little too fast. “I love Dog Cops. I love pizza, too.” Bucky smiles wider and steps back from the doorway, waving Clint inside.

“Great. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

Bucky’s apartment is the mirror image of Clint’s, which he should’ve expected. There’s furniture in this one, though. And more than just a camping lantern to light the living room.

“This is Steve, the dinosaur,” Bucky says, gesturing to an absolute beefcake of a man perched somehow delicately on the arm of Bucky’s overstuffed couch. “That’s Tony next to him, and Sam’s in the kitchen.” Tony seems to be using one of Steve’s massive thighs as a pillow instead of the perfectly good couch cushion, which Clint wouldn’t dream of blaming him for. He offers a jaunty wave, and Clint’s eyes catch on his t-shirt. It’s the same AC/DC one Bucky was wearing earlier in the week. He’s got a blazer thrown on over it like it’s 2005, so the ripped off sleeves aren’t as noticeable, but it’s definitely the same one.

“So you’re the neighbor with the dog,” somebody says, and Clint manages to swallow his sudden disappointment down and turn to meet Sam.

“No dog yet,” Clint says, shoving his hands in his pockets and saying a silent prayer to whatever deity of wishful thinking drove him to actually shower today. Bucky and company are a freakishly attractive group. “But, yeah. That’s me.”

>>==========>

“Clinton Francis,” Kate says sternly, giving him a look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Putting out a dog bed, a mattress, and a coffee machine does _not_ count as moving in.”

“I’m working on it,” Clint says, swinging his legs over the roof ledge and reaching back to give Lucky’s ears a scratch. “There’s a fridge-”

“Which was there when you moved in,” Kate points out. Clint ignores her.

“I made friends. Like, three of them. Three and a half.” He’s not sure if he’d count Tony as a friend. He seems nice, if a little overwhelming. Clint just can’t quite get himself to befriend the guy who’s almost certainly dating Bucky. He had to spend half his conversations with Tony just willing himself not to stare at the damn shirt.

“That’s pretty good,” Kate concedes, pushing her sunglasses back up. “You need to go find some furniture, though. You can’t just live out of boxes for the foreseeable future.”

“I know.” Clint swings himself around on the roof ledge so he’s facing in, taking Lucky’s face in his hands so he can do something other than look at Kate. Lucky drools happily on his arm. “I’m going to Salvation Army tomorrow. I could just live up here like a hermit instead, though. I mean, check out that view.”

“Check out _that_ view,” Kate says, and Clint looks up from smushing Lucky’s face around to see Bucky standing hesitantly in the roof access doorway, carrying a propane tank and sporting a Metallica t-shirt with notably absent sleeves.

“Hi,” Bucky says, floundering for another moment in the doorway before finally starting across the roof. He sets the tank down next to the grill, sliding it under the rain cover. Clint has to look away as Bucky squats down, thighs straining against his skinny jeans.

“Your new neighbor is sex on legs,” Kate hisses, and Clint can pick it up easily enough so he figures she’s barely managing below a stage whisper.

“I bet his boyfriend thinks so too,” Clint breathes. Kate arches an eyebrow at him over her sunglasses, but Bucky’s finished whatever he was doing with the grill so Clint doesn’t dare risk an explanation. He goes for introductions instead.

“Kate, Bucky. Bucky, Kate.” Bucky wipes his hands on his jeans, giving Kate a half wave. He’s still a few yards away and seems reluctant to come any closer. Maybe because Lucky’s panting hopefully at him. Wow. The poor guy must really hate dogs.

“Nice to meet you,” Kate says, sliding her sunglasses up onto her head so she can give Bucky the whole batted eyelashes and sparkling eyes song and dance. Clint puts his full focus into rubbing Lucky’s ears. “I’ll probably be around here a lot. Maybe we’ll see more of each other?”

“Um, yeah.” Bucky’s eyes stay on Lucky and Clint. He doesn’t seem too enthused. “Yeah, maybe.”

>>==========>

Clint took his aids out hours ago as an easy way to block out the hammer-induced headache. If Kate hadn’t insisted on dragging him all the way to Ikea to supplement his Salvation Army finds, he wouldn’t even have the cheesy art prints to hang up in the first place. They do kind of brighten the place up, in a way. The wall clock is helpful, at least, and the dog on one of the prints might not have a smile as sweet as Lucky’s, but Clint decides he’s growing on him.

Lucky still holds the title of Best Dog, though. The puppy in the painting doesn’t do shit to let Clint know when somebody’s at the door.

“Coming,” Clint calls out, setting his screwdriver and Ikea manual aside to answer the door. Lucky settles back down on the dog bed he’s dragged out from the bedroom. Best Dog. “Hang on, I just-” The door swings open to show Bucky, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face.

“Hi,” Bucky says. “Sorry, I-” He’s talking fast, and Clint loses track of his words pretty quickly. He trails off anyways as he notices Clint watching his lips. “Um.”

“Hang on, let me get my ears in.” Bucky looks a little confused at that, but he steps into what is gradually becoming an actual apartment as Clint finds his aids on the newly salvaged coffee table. He hooks them back in, switching them on as Bucky stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, wringing his hands. “Okay, go ahead.”

“I was just coming over to see if you needed help. I could hear the hammering earlier, and, uh, then the swearing. I know the sound of a Grönlid when I hear one.”

“It’s an Ektorp, actually,” Clint says, and Bucky smiles even as he wrinkles his nose.

“Really? Gross.”

“Yeah, Kate said the same thing. I could use a hand, actually.” Bucky’s got a half frown on again, and Clint follows his gaze over to Lucky, curled up on his bed. “Um. Kate left Lucky with me for the week. I hope you don’t mind.”

Bucky crosses the half-assembled living room to crouch down in front of Lucky, who thumps his tail at him.

“You don’t happen to know Swedish, do you?” Bucky asks, scratching his fingers gently over Lucky’s head. His tongue lolls out and Clint feels a little like he’s melting.

>>==========>

There’s a wildly unexpected amount of World War Two books on Bucky’s shelf, and Clint finds himself running his fingers over the spines, sort of wishing he could glean deep knowledge about Bucky just by touching his possessions.

“So, you got a hard-on for Churchill or something?” It’s absolutely not any of the things Clint wanted to say, but he can’t exactly take the question back. He slides a book out at random, pretending like he gives a shit about trench warfare just so he doesn’t have to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah. That top hat? Are you kidding me? Absolutely dreamy.” Bucky sidles up beside him and their shoulders knock together. Clint turns in time to see Bucky take a drink of his beer, and he can feel his cheeks burning as his eyes slide over the graceful lines of Bucky’s throat. He’s unfairly beautiful at any given moment, but seeing Bucky alone in his apartment, in his natural habitat, brings out a sort of softness in him that Clint’s pretty sure is quickly ruining him forever. “No,” Bucky says after a moment. “Those books are mostly recommendations from Steve. He’s the real war buff. World War Two is kind of his thing.”

“And here I was thinking Steve was just regular buff.” Bucky bumps their shoulders together again as he laughs, and Clint kind of wants to just knock his head against the bookshelf. “So what’s your thing, then?”

“The Cold War,” Bucky answers, ducking a little lower to show Clint the bottom few shelves. Clint follows him down and ends up face to face with a picture frame. “That was my focus in college. There’s just something about the drama of it all, you know? The spies, the intrigue. It’s kind of romantic in a tragic sort of way.” The picture in front of Clint has Bucky, Steve, and Tony in it. They’re standing together in the sunshine like somebody asked them to pose, but clearly Tony’s just said something funny because Bucky’s broken eye contact with the camera and Steve is actually falling over, clutching at a Metallica t-shirt that looks painfully familiar, although it still has it’s sleeves.

“Romantic?” Clint drags his eyes away from the picture frame to see Bucky looking pensive, running his thumb over a bookmark sticking out of one of his books.

“Maybe that’s not the right word,” he says, and then he turns back to Clint with one of his easy smiles. “C’mon, then. Are we watching Dog Cops or not?”

>>==========>

“This place is really coming together,” Bucky says, and Clint smiles at him as he hears Sal’s pick up on the other end of the line.

_Thank you_ , he signs, because he’s taught Bucky that much. He starts putting in his pizza order from memory, keeping half an eye on Bucky as he wanders around the apartment. He has the living room all set now, and his sturdy little table from Goodwill might be a little small for the dining room, but at least it’s something. He even has a bed frame now, although he hasn’t put it together yet. Bucky busies himself with examining the dining room chairs, the ones Clint mentioned his repair plans for in passing. He seems to deem them sturdy enough, because next, he joins Clint in the kitchen.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many take-out menus in one place,” Bucky says, jerking his chin at the collage on Clint’s fridge. “I didn’t even know half these places existed.”

“Yeah. Kate says I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m forty.” Bucky just hums in response, frowning a little at the menu for Joy Garden. “I mean, I won’t. I exercise. I eat fruits and stuff.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Bucky snorts. “I still can’t figure out how your shoulders can be that amazing without you skipping leg day every day.” Clint hip checks Bucky out of the way so he can stick the Sal’s menu back up in its proper spot on the fridge.

“I do archery, actually. I work in the range most days. My favorite bow has a draw weight of about two fifty, so that takes care of most of my workouts.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says, actually looking a little pink “Two fifty? That’s- That’s more than I weigh.” Clint shrugs, knocking their shoulders together in a poor attempt to get the shell-shocked look off Bucky’s face.

“Well, you’re tiny so that’s not saying much.”

It breaks whatever spell he was under, and the look on Bucky’s face tells Clint he’s about to get a vicious elbow jab before Bucky freezes again.

“Does Kate ever visit you at the range?” He sounds almost sad when he says it, turning his head away and tucking his hair behind his ears.

“She works there too, so she doesn’t have to.” Bucky’s gotten a little too quiet all of a sudden, and Clint’s not sure exactly how to fix it. “You should come visit us, sometimes. Give her a chance to show me up.”

“I’d believe _that_ when I see it,” Bucky says, and Clint blinks at him.

“What?”

Bucky frowns fully, like he’s thrown by Clint’s confusion.

“You’re pretty amazing. If you do archery that often, I bet you’re great at it. And Kate doesn’t exactly have the shoulder mass to be much competition.” Clint’s mouth might actually be hanging open at this point.

“You really think I’d be better than Kate?”

“Well, yeah.” Bucky’s still frowning at him, and Clint kind of wants to kiss him.

“You _so_ have to watch me shoot. Kate will be so pissed that I finally get to have someone cheering me on for a change.”

>>==========>

“Okay. Okay, Clint- Clint, wait.”

“I’m waiting,” Clint says, doing a piss poor job of keeping the laughter from his voice as Bucky follows him down the street. He reaches out a hand and Clint slows enough to catch it.

“Wait.”

“I’m _waiting._ ” Bucky twines their fingers together, misjudging his distance a bit and ending up leaning heavily on Clint’s shoulder. He pauses for a moment, then laughs too, burying the sound in the sleeve of Clint’s t-shirt.

“You should come out with us all the time,” Bucky says, and Clint shivers just a little at the feeling of his lips moving through the fabric.

“Maybe I will,” Clint says. Bucky is probably the touchiest drunk he’s ever met, and the novelty of having a new member in his usually karaoke night gang was likely what made Clint the target of all his affection. He’s spent the night being hugged, leaned on, poked, and petted, and now that he’s walking Bucky home, they’re actually _holding hands._ Clint knows he should feel guilty about it. Well, he thinks he should feel guilty about it. He’s not exactly sure why at the moment.

“We’ll make Tony come next time, too. He’s wild.” Bucky’s holding Clint’s hand in both of his now, but the warmth of him doesn’t hold up much against the guilt that washes over Clint like a bucket of ice water.

“Yeah, you probably should.” Clint extricates himself gently from Bucky’s hands, earning a whine for his troubles. He pats him a little on the shoulder, which seems to soothe him enough to keep him walking toward the apartment. “I bet you like having Tony at karaoke night the best anyways, right?”

“No, you’re my favorite now.” And that’s all kinds of guilt right there. Clint shakes Bucky off just a little more, putting a respectable distance between them while still giving him a shoulder to lean on. All his floaty fuzziness from before has dropped right down through his stomach like a one-ton weight. “Tony only sings boring dad rock. You pick _fun_ songs. Billy Joel is way better than Metallica.”

“I thought you liked Metallica,” Clint says. Bucky leans his head on his shoulder, and he decides to allow that, at least. He shakes his head against Clint’s sleeve.

“No. I just wear the shirts because they’re Tony’s.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, I figured.

>>==========>

Clint’s always found something about summer storms kind of lovely. Maybe it’s how the air hits the perfect temperature for opening all the windows and perching on the fire escape. Maybe it’s how the city simmers down to a calm sort of happiness while the rain drums away outside. Maybe it’s just the way New York doesn’t reek for once.

The city lights have bled into a hazy glow with the drizzle, and Clint takes a cold beer with him to sit outside and listen to the white noise of the city. Lucky curls up on the rug beneath the window, not as interested in figuring out how to walk across the grate with his paws.

“You alright?”

Clint almost jumps a mile at Bucky’s voice, his hands slipping on wet metal as he tries to turn back to the window. He manages to spill about half his drink on himself before finally turning around to face Bucky.

“Sorry,” Bucky says sheepishly, waving a hand full of envelopes and a small package. “I ended up with some of your mail, and- I guess I could have left it outside, but Mark over in twenty-one A said that somebody’s been taking his shit so I thought I’d bring it over. And then you didn’t answer, and the door was unlocked, and you’re just sitting out here in the rain, so…” Bucky trails off, glancing down at Lucky a little desperate as if he can offer any kind of help. Clint kind of feels like somebody’s got a vice grip around his heart.

“It’s nice out here,” he says. “You can join me, if you want. Unless you think you’ll melt.”

“Only one way to find out, I guess,” Bucky says, although there’s still something kind of shaky in his smile. He sets Clint’s mail down on the floor, giving Lucky a pat like he needs him to stay on guard, and then Clint’s scooting over so Bucky can climb over him and settle down in a dry enough spot. He nestles in right next to Clint, pressing them together from shoulder to ankle.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the cars go by and people walk past below. It’s still peaceful with Bucky next to him, but Clint feels a little like there’s an electric current running through every part of them that’s touching.

Bucky shifts for a moment, to get more comfortable, or maybe he’s just about to leave. Either way, he slides his arm out from between them, and Clint finds himself sucking in a breath at the contact.

Bucky freezes, his eyes locking on Clint’s, and the white noise of the city suddenly feels deafening, pounding in Clint’s ears like a stampede. Or maybe that’s his heartbeat.

He swallows, and Bucky’s eyes drop down to Clint’s mouth. He licks his lips automatically, the moment pressing too hard against his chest for him to find any breath.

Bucky leans in then, not fast at all, but Clint still can’t find the time to think before their lips are pressed together. There’s nothing rough about it, no clashing of teeth or biting of lips, but the urgency of Bucky’s lips sliding against his feels far from gentle.

Clint kisses back, letting Bucky’s sighs against his lips fall into rhythm with the drum of the rain and the thud of his heartbeat. He doesn’t think about it. There’s a ghost of a thought. Maybe he thinks about not thinking about it, but it’s not until Bucky groans against his mouth and gets a fist in his shirt that Clint pulls back.

“Fuck,” he says, and he hates how rough his voice sounds. “Bucky, we can’t-”

“I know,” Bucky says, and Clint hates how cold his chest feels when Bucky’s pulled his hands away. He hates how he plays with the hem of his own shirt, the Def Leppard one that Clint’s seen Tony wear at least five times by now. “I know, I’m sorry. I just- fuck.” Bucky hides his face in his hands, and Clint flounders, not sure if he should comfort him or not. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says again, his voice muffled. “I didn’t want to- God. I know you and Kate are happy together, I just-”

“Kate?” Clint almost shouts, because Kate is the last person on his mind right now. “Why do you care about Kate? What about you and Tony?”

“Tony?” Bucky drops his hands to look at Clint in shock. “What _about_ me and Tony?”

“What about you? You’re _dating._ ”

“I’m not dating Tony.” Bucky really is shouting now.

“You have pictures together! You wear his shirts!”

“To piss him off! He hates when I rip the sleeves off, and I only do it because it drives Steve crazy too, and they’re _this_ close to realizing how in love with each other they are and- why am I talking about Steve and Tony? You’re dating Kate!”

“I would _never_ ,” Clint splutters, and it’s his turn to shout. “No, _gross._ She’s like my sister!”

Bucky’s face has about twenty emotions in it at once, and Clint can’t tell what any of them are. Bucky opens his mouth and Clint feels like he’s about to get yelled at again.

“You’re not dating Kate.” Bucky’s voice is suddenly much quieter, and he talks slowly. “And- and I’m _not_ dating Tony.”

“So,” Clint says, because it seems like the right word to prompt him forward. Bucky frowns at him, his brow furrowing with genuine confusion.

“So why the hell aren’t we kissing?”

Clint blinks at him. He raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it again. It’s been… Christ, it’s been nearly a year since he and Bucky met, and all this time Clint thought he was with Tony. He can almost feel the gears turning in his own head, clicking new things into place. Clint looks at Bucky, his hair damp with soft summer rain and his eyes boring into Clint in the fading evening light.

“I don’t know,” Clint says. He leans forward, pinning Bucky against the metal of the fire escape and tangling his fingers in his hair. “Why the hell haven’t we been kissing for almost an entire year?”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, but it sounds like a plea, and Clint is happy to oblige.


End file.
